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Who Wrote 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP? 



.0^ 



VINDICATION 

OF THB 

CLAIM OF ALEXANDER M. W. BALL, 

OF ELIZABETH, N. J., 
TO 

THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE POEM, 

Kocife me to Sltt^, iEotijer. 

By 0. A. :5^0RSE, 

Of Cherry Valley, ]!f. Y. 



WITH AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE FROM 
LUTHER R. MARSH. 







r Yo: 

506 

1867. 


^^.rr,or:on^^^^^ 


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;. w. 


Nev\ 
DODD, 


''^ of Wt«*rt<^^^ 

RK : 
BROADWAY. 



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Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1861, 

By M. W. DoDD, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, 
for the Southern District of New York. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 



New York, February 15, 1867. 

My dear Sir : 

I do not yet see, in print, the article which 
you permitted me to read in manuscript, vin- 
dicating the claim of our friend Mr. Ball, 
to the authorship of the poem, which has 
found lodgment in the public favor, "Rock 
me to sleep." I hope the friendship which 
caused you to write it will not cool, ere you 
consummate the defense by giving it to type. 
So many emulous pens claim the lines, and 
one especially asserts with such earnestness, 
and help of publishers, its right to appro- 
priate them, that the real author is in danger 
of losing his offspring ; and, soon, nothing 
short of a writ of habeas corpus and judg- 
ment thereon, will restore to the father the 



6 

custody of his own child. Indeed ah^eady, 
he stands in an equivocal position in the 
estimation of those who are unacquainted 
with him, and who are less familiar with the 
facts than we are. Through the zeal of his 
friends, his claim to the poem has acquired 
such publicity, that he is now driven to the 
alternative of defending his right, or here- 
after remaining clouded with the suspicion 
of having put forth unfounded pretensions- 
A man's duty to himself and family sometimes 
calls on him to wage a contest he would else 
shrink from and abandon. These considera- 
tions, in a great measure, have been overcome 
in him, by a chivalric forbearance towards 
his chief contestant, and she would have 
walked, mistress, over the field, had not you, 
whose leisure permitted, whose tendencies 
are in the way of such an investigation, and 
whose character gives voucher for every 
statement of fact, undertaken of your own 
accord, unsolicited by him, the arranging of 
some of the prominent proofs in his behalf. 
As I remember your article, there were 



some classes of evidence which you did not 
deem it necessary to invoke, such as the 
domestic testimonies — the absolute declara- 
tions of wife and children as to dates and 
facts — and other cumulative proof; but 
enough was presented, I thought, to settle the 
question of authorship, and to illustrate a 
very curious phenomenon in literature. 
Cordially Yours, 

Luther R. Marsh. 

Hon. Oliver A. Morse, 
Glwrry Valley. 



VINDICATION. 



Many lovers of lyric poetry, for a few years 
past, have been deliglited with a poem, which is 
really a fragment of a poem, whose burden is 
" Rock me to sleep, mother." This fragment has 
been floating in tBe newspapers under the Jioin de 
plimie of Florence Percy, and likewise has been 
published as a song set to music. The power and 
tenderness of feeling evinced in it, the harmo- 
niousness and elegance of its versification, and 
the deep sweet flow of its sentiment render it 
popular and admired by all classes of readers. 
The whole poem may be ranked among the gems 
of American literature, nor is it perhaps too much 
to say, that as a plaintive refrain of filial love, it 
is not surpassed in our language. The lines of 
Cowper to his mother's picture awaken the same 
emotions, but in a less degree than these exquisite 



10 

verses, and certainly are inferior to them, as a 
longing and a cry that cannot be suppressed, for 
converse with the spirit of a beloved departed 
mother. It may be a question, whether in Cow- 
per's day, the spiritual atmosphere of England 
was not such, as to render impossible, even to the 
most refined and acute souls, any such vivid recog- 
nition and perception of beloved beings in the 
• other world, as are manifested in these lines. 

A controversy has arisen respecting the author- 
ship of this production, which promises to make 
a curious item in literary history. The six verses 
of the poem which have been in the newspapers 
and set to music, are claimed Hy various persons, 
and on the 13th of June 1865, a note, of which 
the following is a copy, was published in the Neiv 
York Evening Post : 

LITERARY MISAPPROPRIATION. 



To the Editor of the Evening Post. 

Please allow me sufficient space in your columns for 
a few words concerning a little poem entitled, " Rock me 
to sleep," which unwisely enough, as it has proved, I wrote 
and published five years ago, the authorship of which, 
by some queer freak of taste, has been repeatedly claimed 



11 



by eight or ten persons, not one of wliom ever saw the 
poem until it appeared in print. 

I am certainly one of the last individuals in the world 
to take the humiliating position of contending in public 
or otherwise, for a matter of literary credit; and so long 
as this question was merely that of ability to write the 
poem in dispute it was simply amusing to me. 

But when it assumes, as it has latterly done, the attitude 
of a slander, liable to set me wrong in the opinion of 
many whose regard is dearer to me than any newspaper 
praise could be. When I hear myself good naturedly 
designated in society, as the lady who pretends to have 
written, etc., it is high time to state the facts. 

I certainly wrote the song in question, and sent it from 
Italy in May, 1860, to the PliilacMphla Saturday Even- 
ing Post, in which it immediately appeared, with the 
signature of. "Florence Percy," a name which I mis- 
takenly adopted when a school girl. 

I remember laughing heartily at an enthusiastic friend 
of mine, who, reading for the hundredth time, as only he 
could read, Bulwer's sweet little lyric commencing 



" When stars are in the quiet skies, 
" Then most I pine for thee : 

" Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 
" As stars look on the sea " 



remarked gravely, " I wish I had written that song ; " and 
he continued, holding the book at arm's length, and look- 
ing at the print with loving eyes, " I believe I should 
have done it if Bulwer had let it alone." 

Accepting this as a probability, I can but regret that 
I wrote the unhappy poem, herein designated, believing 



12 



as I must believe tliat every one of its claimants 
would have written it in due time, and doubtless more 
perfectly if " I bad let it alone." 

Very respectfully, 

Elizabeth A. C. Akers. 
Washington City, D. C, June, 1865. 



In a volume of poems published for Mrs. Akers 
by Messrs. Tickuor and Fields, in 1866, these six 
verses are included. Consequent on the publica- 
tion of this card, and this volume, remarks and 
insinuations have been made, both in public prints 
and in private circles, respecting the author of 
the whole poem of such a character, as to demand 
some response from him or his friends. The 
writer of these pages is one of those friends, and 
while he does not profess any special quahfi- 
cation for his volunteered championship, he does 
profess to be actuated by an honest intention that 
the truth shall be made plain. The whole poem, 
of fifteen verses, of eight hnes each, was wi'itten 
by Alexander M. W. Ball, of Ehzabeth, ]^ew 
Jersey, in the latter part of the year 1856, and the 
early part of the year 1857. It is as follows, and 
as a whole has never before been in print. 



13 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. 



I. 

Backward, flow backward, oh full tide of years, 

I am so weary of toils and of tears — 

Toil without recompense — tears all in vain, 

Take them, and give me my childhood again, 

I have grown weary of dust and decay — 

Weary of flinging my heart's wealth away : 

Weary of sowing for others to reap, 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



II. 



Hushed be my sighing, I see through the mist 
Loved ones that cheer me, and silently list : 
Hark ! tis the hymning of angelic song, 
Joyfully leading my sad heart along, 



14 

Treading the grass that now weeps on your grave, 
Let me in spirit your sweet presence crave : 
This will now cheer me, no more will I weep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



III. 

Clouded and sabled, there come with my age 
Records of sadness, to soil the fair page. 
Footprints of sorrow to blot it all o'er, 
Thinking of those on the echoless shore. 
Only, I see you look down on me now. 
While humbly kneeling, at his cross I bow : 
Come then and dry up the tears I must weep. 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



IV. 



As stars in the day are concealed by the light, 
And darkness unveils them alone to the sight. 
So sleeping I see you, unseen when awake, 
And welcome thrice welcome is sleep for your sake. 



15 

Soft are my slumbers, a glory of beams, 
Announcing your coming, illumines my dreams : 
Visit me nightly, and when I would weep, 
Kock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



Backward, turn backward, then time in your flight, 
Make me a child again just for to-night, 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart as of yore, 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



VI. 

Over my heart in bright days that are flown. 
No love like mother love ever has shone, 
No other worship abides and endures. 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; 



16 

None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world weary brain, 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



VII. 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you, 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded our faces between. 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again; 
Come from the silence, so long and so deep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



VIII. 

Mother, dear mother, the days have been long, 
Since I last hushed to your lullaby song ; 
Sing it, and unto my soul it shall seem, 
Manhood's long years have been only a dream. 



17 

Clasped to your lieart, in a loving embrace, 
Witli your light lashes just sweeping my face : 
Never hereafter to sigh or to weep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



IX. 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old — 
Let it fall over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light :' 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Fondly will throng the sweet visions of yore, 
Lovingly, softly, its charmed billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



X. 

Angelic mother, now tenderly smile, 

While the fond seraphs my soul shall beguile ; 

Shed o'er my pathway the spirit world's light 

To guide and to cheer me, all through the night. 
3 



18 

I have grown weary of life's ctanging tide, 
Weary of weeping for hopes that have died ; 
Weary of climhing life's hill side so steep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



XI. 

Tired of earth's mockery, and the world's strife, 
Tired of the penances paid for this life — 
Growing more weary of heartless display — 
Weary of world's night, I long for the day — 
Let then your spirit encompass me now. 
While on your bosom in silence I bow. 
Tenderly watching my thoughts as they sweep, 
Kock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



XII. 

Thought cannot linger around the cold tomb. 
Sweet spirit faces will break through its gloom. 
And when I wipe the fresh tear drops away. 
Clouds turn to brightness, and roseate day 



19 



Breaks on my vision, then smiling again 
Peace spreads lier gentle wings softly to reign, 
Voices celestial forbid me to weep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



XIII. 

Stilled are my tumults, I see in the sky 

Loved ones whose splendors have drowned every sigh, 

Faces familiar of friends here no more, 

Fairer and fonder than ever before — 

Grlorified figures that stoop to caress, 

Mighty to comfort, and mighty to bless — 

Bright is the vision — no more can I weep, 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 

XIV. 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to rest; 
Calmed with your smiling the storm in my breast. 
Stilled are the sorrows you come to allay ; 
Teach me again as of old how to pray — 



20 

Contentions without, contentions within, 
Battlings with doubt, and temptation, and sin. 
Ceased with your presence, I cannot now weep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



XV. 

Thus with my loved ones I'll watch by your side. 
Nor weep once again, whatever betide. 
Waiting all calmly the coming of those 
Holding the signet of death's cold repose; — 
Farewell to sorrow — farewell to all ill — 
Whispers are stealing, sad heart be now still, — 
With my dear mother, kind watch I will keep, 
She charges the angels to rock me to sleep. 



21 



The following verses are found in Mrs. Akers' 
volume : 

ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 



Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight, 
Make rae a cliikl again just for to-niglit ! 
Mother, come bacli from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 

I am so weary of toil and of tears. 

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 

Take them, and give me my childhood again ; 

I have grown weary of dust and decay, 

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ;. 

Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between : 
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so deep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Over my heart, iu the days that are floAvn, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures, 
Taithful, imselfish, and patient like j^ours : 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world weary brain, 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Come let your brown hair just lighted with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore : 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song ; 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace. 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep : 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Mrs. Akers is an authoress favorably known 
to tlie public, whose writings have the imprimatur 
of the press of Ticknor and Fields. Mr. Ball is 
a gentleman in private life, who has never pub- 
lished a line, and is unknown as a poet, except 
to his intimate friends. In the issue which is here 



23 

made between them, the lady therefore has the 
advantage in the fact, that before the piibhc the 
presumption would be in her favor. Her pub- 
lishers intimate that they rest her case on that 
ground ; but whether they shall continue to do so 
will be a matter of more moment to her than to 
Mr. Ball. The controversy has been forced on 
Mr. Ball, or rather on his friends, for he has not 
even yet been willing to take much part in it. 
Several persons, who long have been familiar 
with the whole poem, as written by him, when 
they saw the authorship claimed by and accorded 
to another, on their own responsibility and with- 
out his knowledge, asserted in the newspapers 
that he was the veritable author. Although he 
was not known as a poet, his personal and social 
standing gave circulation, and more or less credit 
to this statement, and to his regret and chagrin 
he has found himself the subject of remark in 
the newspapers, sometimes of a most unpleasant 
character.* He would have been willina: that 



* For instance in these two extracts, the first seems to give 
the name at which the slur towards the close of the latter is 
pointed. 

From the N. T. Evening Gazette, Dec 31, 18G6. 
The contest over the authorship of that singularly popular poem entitled 
" Keck me to sleep, mother" is still vigorously prosecuted by Mr. A. M. 



24 

Mrs. Akers or any one else, should have enjoyed 
all the credit that could be had from the poem ; 
but his friends feel, as Mrs. Akers's note expresses 
it, that when the matter assumes the attitude of 
a slander, it is high time the facts should be made 
known. 

The question has been asked, who is Mr. Ball 
whose friends declare to be the author of one of 
the most beautiful poems of the day ? If he has 
written this, it is said, he could write other things 
like it, and what else has he written ? These 



W. Ball, of Elizabeth. Dr. Ripley, literary editor of the Tribune, and Dr. 
Coles, of Newark, smVaor oi , Microcosm, who have interested themselves 
in the matter, both admit the justice of Mr. Ball's claims. 

From the N. T. Evening Gazette, Jau 3, 1867. 

Literary Larcenies. 

There must be something in a literary reputation, or so many would not 
be striving to attain it by all sorts of means. There is a class of scribblers 
who wriggle themselves into momentary notoriety by pufl'cry, and there is 
another class who impudently demand attention by claiming the author- 
ship of productions which they could not under any circumstances have 
written. They generally fasten upon some striking poem which was pub- 
lished anonymousl}', or whose writer's name has been separated from it 
in its wanderings over land and sea, and make a manuscript copj', which 
they read to their friends, who, of course, are ready afterwards to testify 
that they saw the piece in manuscript, fresh from the brain of the author, 
before it found its way in print, with other little fanciful additions which 
they very honestly believe. Some of the most famous lyrics in the lan- 
guage have had their paternity disputed in this way. Among others, 
Wolfe's Burial of Sir John 3Ioore, which a number of imaginative Celts 
endeavored to father upon themselves, and Campbell's JSxile of Erin, 
which it is now pretended that he stole bodily, we believe from the tradi- 
tionary exile himself, McCann, if that was his name. They are very active 
here, and at this time — these barefaced purloiners of reputation — snap- 
ping up auy little waif that may come under their observation. Every- 



25 

would seem reasonable queries, and they shall be 
fully answered. 

The natural division of the inquiry would be, 
first, could Mr. Ball have written the poem, that 
is, has he the ability to write it ; and second, did 
he write it, and if so, when did he write it. Both 
of these points will be fully considered and illus- 
trated, but in the inverse order in which they 
are stated. 

In her note to the Eoening Post, Mrs. Akers 



■body remembers the young person of the softer sex, a Miss Peck, if we 
recall her name correctly, who said that 'twas she, and not Mr. William 
Allan Butler, who wrote Nothing to Wear which, of course, she had no 
means of proving beyond her mere assertion, which nobody was gallant 
enough to accept. A second instance of disputed authorship was venti- 
lated a few months since in the Round Table, the thing in dispute then 
being a copy of verses entitled The Long Ago, and written by a Mr. 
Benjamin F. Taylor, of Chicago, who has had all sorts of hands grasping 
after his imaginary laurel, and rousing, through their friends, a mighty 
clamor for justice, which they richly deserved in the nearest literary pillory. 
A third instance concerned the plaintive little IjtIc Rock me to sleep, 
mother, which was written by Florence Percy, otherwise Mrs Akers, 
formerly the widow of a sculptor of that name and now we believe a Mrs. 
Perry of somewhere in Virginia. We say that it was written by her 
Bince she has included it intlie blue aud gold edition of her poems which 
was published not long ago iu Boston. This fact proves nothing to those 
who dispute her claims in behalf of themselves or others, but it settles the 
question as regards the general reader who has no interest in it beyond 
what he derives from the poetry. If an author of reputation says that he 
or she wrote such or such a poem, his or her word ought to end all contro- 
versy, particularly such controversies as are waged by persons of whom no 
one ever heard before or cares to hear again. It is time, it is more than 
time, that these cases of literary larceny were punished, for if allowed to 
flourish much longer unchecked no man can feel that his poem or his purse 
is safe. For he who begins by putting his name to a poem that he did 
not write may end by putting the name of another to one that he did, and 
And himself some fine morning in prison for forgery. 

4 



26 

has made tlae exact issue between herself and all 
other claimants. Writing in June, 1865, she says 
she wrote and published the poem five years ago, 
and that not one of its claimants ever saw it till 
it appeared in print. So far then as she is con- 
cerned, the question will be settled, if the exist- 
ence of the poem prior to 1860, can be established. 
Mr. Ball wrote, or made the draft of the whole 
poem, except one verse, in the latter part of the 
year 1856. In February, 1857, he sailed for Cali- 
fornia, and on the steamers, on both oceans, he 
corrected and polished it, and added one verse. 
The following letters and facts are given as evi- 
dence of the truth of this statement. 
- The letters bear internal evidence of their au- 
thenticity, and will commend themselves to any 
intelligent reader as genuine and truthful. Some 
of the writers are ladies, and their names are not 
printed, as it is not anticipated that either the 
genuineness of the letters, or the good faith or 
intelligence of the writers will be questioned. 
But the names can be given, and the letters more 
fully authenticated, should there be any question 
about either. 



1 



27 



Postscript of a Letter to Mr. Ball, Dated 
Brooklyn, April 7, 1858. 

p, s. — Will you please seucl me by tlie doctor, the 
lines on the fly leaf of the book which I presented to you, 
and also the other poem, which you read to me when I 
saw you last, entitled, " Rock me to sleep, mother." 



New York, July 10, 1866. 
My Bear Mr. Ball : 

In reply to your inquiry whether I remembered a cer- 
tain visit to your house in Newark and the reading by 
you of " Rock me to sleep, mother," I have to say 
that my recollection is most vivid of the whole aifair. A 

projected visit by myself and Mrs. was carried into 

execution. Upon our arriving we found that Mrs. Ball 
had gone to Leroy to place her daughter at school, but at 
your urgent request we remained till her return. 

It was before her return that one Evening you read the 
disputed poem, and so distinct is my recollection of the 
circumstances, that the room and the positions occupied by 
all of us, are before me. It was a manuscript written upon 
note paper. That the authorship had been questioned I 
did not know until a paragraph in the Evening Post in 
this city announced that you were at last believed to be 
the rightful claimant. 

I involuntarily remarked that I could have settled that 
long ago, for I had so many years since heard it from 
your own manuscript. That you should have been ques- 



28 



tioned in tlie matter is only additional proof of your too 
great modesty, wliicli lias thus far prevented many beau- 
tiful things you have written being published and thus 
establishing at once the authorship of what your many 
friends may justly be proud. 

I am yours, truly, 
I. E. S. 



Ithaca, June 27, 1865. 
My dear Mr. Ball: 

What I particularly intended to say when I commenced 
this sheet was, that I saw recently in the N. T. Evening 
Post, a card from Mrs. Akers, in which she claims to have 
written and published in 1860, the poem " Kock me to 
sleep, mother." Now in the winter of 1856 or 1857, you 
read to me one evening in your study, your poem of 
" Rock me to sleep, mother." One verse of which com- 
mencing "Backward, flow backward," was at the time the 
subject of my criticism. You can fix the exact time by 
ascertaining which winter it was, that Mrs. Ball took 
Maria to Dr. Cox's, and placed her in the school in Leroy. 

Had you acceded to the reiterated wishes of those of 
your friends whom you honored with the reading of some 
of your poetical effusions, to publish them, or at least give 
us copies of them, Mrs. Akers and some half score other 
ladies, would have been less bold in claiming the mater- 
nity of the poem in question. * * * 
Very sincerely your friend, 
L. P. 



29 

A bill now before tbe writer rendered by the 
Principal of the Leroy school, at tlie beginning 
of Mr. Ball's daughter's first term, fixes the date 
called for by the writers of the above letters in 
February, 1857. 

In fact, the draft of the poem was read to these 
two ladies at that time, just prior to Mr. Ball's 
sailing for CaUfornia. 



Albany, October 26, 1866. 
My dear Mr. Ball : 

In reference to that beautiful poem, " Rock me to sleep, 
mother," I am sorry that I cannot remember the exact 
date when I first heard it. I distinctly remember your 
reading it to me, and I know it was either in the year 
1857 or 1858. I have heard it sung, and highly praised, 
and was happy to say, that I had the pleasure of knowing 
the author. ***** 

Your friend, 

H. D. E. 



8 Pine St., New York, Oct. 25, 1866. 
Dear Sir : 

Relative to the controversy in re the authorship of 
" Rock me to sleep, mother." 



30 



Sometime during the autumn of 1859, I think in the 
month of September, I called on business at your house 
in Newark. Mrs. Ball was absent — in Cherry Valley, 
I believe — at the time. 

In course of our conversation, you said you had been 
writing a satirical poem, which — as I knew some of the 
parties — you read to me ; and during the interview you 
also took from your desk other productions, among them 
that which you have read to me to day, bearing the 
above title. 

I am able to fix the date by that of the paper which 

was the subject of our interview, and which I now have 

before me. 

Yours respectfully, 

J. Burrows Hyde. 

To A. M. W. Ball, Esq., 
Elizabeth, N. J. 



Newark, N. J., Jan. 11, 18G7. 
Dear Sir: 

In reply to your inquiry as to my recollection of your 
reading to me " Rock me to sleep, mother" (and which 
you have just now reread to me), I would say, that 
during the summer of 1857, I called on you at your 
house to ascertain whel-e you purchased a set of damask 
window curtains, as I wanted to procure the same kind. 
During my visit you read me that poem with others. I 
was particularly struck with this one, as I had known 
your mother, and remarked on the justness of the senti- 
ment referring to her. I am confirmed in my recollection 



31 

of the time, by finding that the curtains I purchased on 
your recommendation were charged to me in September 
of that year, and it took some time to procure them. 
My wife, to whom I have spoken on the subject, recol- 
lects the occasion as I do. I remember saying to you at 
your house, when you read me the poetry referred to, 
that if you had not published you ought to do so, and 
that as we were old friends, if you did not publish, and 
would make me your literary executor, I would see that 
the gift God had given you should be known hereafter 
if I outlived you. 

I am. 

Yours truly, 

Lewis C. Grover. 
A. M. W. Ball, Esq. 



Some of these letters were procured by Mr. 
Ball, and some voluntarily written to Mm, after 
the recent discussion concerning the authorship 
of the poem in the Post, Tribune, and other papers. 
A large amount of other proof of a like nature, 
.could be given, and would be were there any 
question that the point, the existence of the poem 
prior to 1860, and as early as 1857, was not fully 
established. Do not these letters settle that with 
a certainty, to all intents, sufficient to convict of 
murder in any court in Christendom ? 



32 

Evidence of Mr. Ball's authorsliip of an entirely 
different character, but equally conclusive, and 
perhaps more interesting, is now offered. This 
is found in the poem itself It would seem 
that no criticism or argument could be needed 
to show that the same pen, the same inspiration 
which wrote the nine verses, which are now 
for the first time published, also wrote the 
other six. Mr. Ball's authorship as to the 
nine is not questioned, and do not the whole 
fifteen belong to the same one exquisite mosaic ? 
Where else does this sweet verse belong, the 
first in the unpublished series, and does it not 
speak for him more convincingly than any dates 
and documents ? 

Hushed be my sigliing, I see tliro' tlie mist, 
Loved ones that cheer me, and silently list. 
Hark ! 'tis the hymning of angelic song, 
Joyfully leading my sad heart along. 
Treading the grass that now weeps on your grave. 
Let me in spirit your sweet presence crave ; 
This will now cheer me, no more will I weep, 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



33 

Will it be said tliat this and its fellow unpub- 
lislied verses, are merely interpolations in, and 
imitations of Mrs. Akers and Messrs. Ticknor and 
Field's original ? Let us then scrutinize tbe next 
in order of these parts, and see whether it be 
indeed a counterfeit, or whether in every word 
and breath it is not full of truth and beauty, and 
does not belong, by an obviousness higher than 
any logic can prove, to this garland which a loving 
son has placed on the grave of his mother. 



Clouded and sabled there come witli my age, 
Records of sadness to soil the fair page, 
Footprints of sorrow to blot it all o'er, 
Thinking of those on the echoless shore. 
Only I see you look down on me now, 
While humbly kneeling at his cross I bow ; 
Come then, and dry up the tears I must weep, 
Ptock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 



Who that can at all appreciate the beauty of 
this poem, is not conscious and convinced as he 
thus reads it, part by part, that it all came to one 
soul by one inspiration. The same sweet, tender 



34 

minor strain of plaintiveness and pathos, is 
breathed in every line and verse, from the half 
passionate outburst of the " Backward, flow back- 
ward," of the beginning, to the calm assured hope- 
fulness of the end. To such a tribunal as from 
the nature of this case it must alone be presented 
before, it would seem that the most satisfactory 
guide to the truth will thus be found in the poem 
itself. Who that reads it all, as now first printed, 
can fail to recognize it as one entire thing ? Mark 
how necessarily and with what eflect, the renewed 
cry of "Backward, turn backward," on the open- 
ing of the fifth verse, follows the pathetic rehearsal 
of the experiences of life in the preceding verses, 
and how the lament of a soul over its pains and 
penances, in the eleventh, unpublished, verse, 
harmonizes both in language and spirit with the 
seventh, published, verse. Read again the last 
verse, and see what a natural, simple, and har- 
monious finale it is to the whole : 



Tlins witli my loved ones, I'll watcli by your side, 
Nor weep ouce again whatever betide, 
Waiting all calmly tlie coming of those, 
Holding the signet of death's cold repose : 



3 



35 



Farewell to sorrow, farewell to all ill, 
Whispers are stealing, sad heart be still ; 
With my dear mother kind watch I will keep. 
She charges the angels to rock me to sleep. 



Whatever may be the relative merit of these 
separate parts, are they not all in one strain, of 
one style, with the same beauties and same defects, 
running everywhere, though in a greater or less 
measure. The repetitions may by some be con- 
sidered a defect, but on the theory that the whole 
had been lost by the author, the finder, if disposed 
to appropriate it, would naturally pubhsh only 
those verses which did not so plainly repeat them- 
selves, selecting what might seem the best. The 
very fact then of this peculiarity, or defect, if it is 
one, must be taken as proof that the whole is the 
work of one mind. Wlien the wise Hebrew king 
was called on to judge in a case not wholly unlike 
this, he distinguished the true parent from the 
spurious, by the readiness of the latter to see her 
pretended ofispring cut in twain ; and will not the 
public, guided by like wisdom, with the whole 
poem, the full creation, the born child, before 
them, pronounce that the verses pubUshed by 



36 

Mrs. Akers, tliougli beautiM in themselves, are 
disjecta membra, and tliat therefore slie could not 
have been the mother. 

The following statement suggested by the 
poem itself, will surely be deemed appropriate 
and interesting. In the disputed verses it is said : 

" Come let your brown hair just lighted with gold," 

And again : 

"Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair." 

Though there is a large license granted to poets, 
particularly to professional poets, in such things, 
yet certainly the case of either party here will be 
helped, whose facts will accord with these ex- 
pressions. This is a genuine poem, and came 
from the soul of the writer, whoever that writer 
was. It was not conceived, but felt. It did not 
arise from the brain, or fancy, but from the 
heart, or it would not find an answering chord in 
so many hearts. Can an instance be found of a 
poem of universal popularity, of this character, 
which did not spring from living reality, from 
the actual, not the ideal. Burns was a profes- 



37 

sional poet, but Highland Mary was a living 
maid. The mass of enduring poetry, of the 
plaintive cast, is a portraiture of the lives of the 
writers. Knowing what the instinctive judgment 
of most will be over the facts suggested by the 
above striking lines, the vsriter of this article 
states, that he has seen one of the ample tresses 
of the hair of his friend's mother, and that it is 
brown tinged with auburn, and that his friend's 
forehead is furrowed, and the silver threads in 
his hair not a few. As to the answering facts 
in the case of the fair claimant to a part of the 
lines, there is no evidence at hand, except so far 
as regards herself personally, but that surely 
must be considered satisfactory. Speaking as a 
widow, and it is understood that in the vicissi- 
tudes of her life, she has not long since been in 
that condition, she says (page 143 Mrs. Akers's 
Poems) : 

" All me ! the red is yet upon my cheek, 

And in my veins life's vigorous currents play; 
Adown my hair there shines tio warning streaky 
And the sweet meeting which you paint to-day 
Seems sadly far away. 



The next e\ndence properly belongs here, though 
it would be more fairly appreciated, if read with 
what hereafter appears on the general topic of 
Mr. Ball's poetry. 

For many years past, he has been in the habit 
every year of writing for his family a Christmas 
carol, and of reading it likeTvdse to some of his 
many friends and guests, who during the holidays 
partake of the hospitality of his house. These 
carols are hastily and carelessly written, for the 
partial and uncritical few to whom they are read. 
Like all his verses they are spontaneous and un- 
studied, and express in the most unreserved man- 
ner, the sentiments of tenderness and love for his 
family, which seem to have peculiar power over 
him at the Christmas festival. The bringing them 
before the public gaze, is only permitted by the 
consideration, that they may serve to protect for 
his family, his honorable name, which is now so 
strangely assailed. Sacred as they are, they must 
yield to this still more sacred end. The writer 
of these remarks, while a guest at Mr. Ball's house 
this last Christmas, on hearing read the carol 
written by him for that occasion, requested to see 
some of the others, and was startled to find in 



39 

them what he regarded as having a very import- 
ant bearing on the question under consideration. 
This evidence, thus accidentally discovered, must 
impress any one in a way that mere dates and 
certificates never can. In reading it, who will 
not be led to exclaim, magna est Veritas ! It 
consists of extracts, given below, from the carols 
of 1852 to 1856 inclusive. But the reader is 
especially desired to take notice, that these extracts 
are not given as specimens of Mr. Ball's poetry. 
They are oifered, without a"ny regard whatever 
to their merit or demerit as poetry, simply to 
show the invariable and inevitable c^uickening and 
longing of his soul, at this season of the year, 
after his beloved mother. It was about this time 
in the year, December, that the draft of the poem 
was made, and these extracts show, that at every 
Christmas for years prior to the poem, his love for 
his mother found utterance through his poetical 
faculty, till at last, in the carol for 1856, it was 
poured forth in the very language of the poem 
itself. The reader is again requested to bear in 
mind the disclaimer, that these extracts are not 
offered as specimens of his poetry. They are now 
published, for the purpose just stated, unpolished 
and unpruned, as they were first written for the 
momentary pleasure of his own fireside. 



40 



CHRISTMAS 1852. 



Thro' the closed portals of the sky, 

I see a ray descend, 
That fills my heart with visions bright 

Of Mother, .brother, friend ! 
And shall we in this sacred place, 

Meet round the Christmas tree 
Nor seek the absent loved ones gone. 

Nor Mother think of thee ! 



No, no, sweet scented is the air, 

We breathe this Christmas day, 
But sweeter, purer from the past. 

Comes this thy hallowed ray ; 
And memory brightens while we weep, 

And feel that thou art near, 
Part of our sunshine comes from thee, 

Tho' now no longer here. 



41 

Thy memory rooted in our hearts, 

Can never be effaced, 
And with it now revive again, 

Joys not to be erased. 
Fond Mother ! while you now commune, 

With him who followed you 
So quickly to the spirit world, 

Watch over us anew. 

Time's reaper has not stopped to touch 

Only the full blown rose, 
But the sweet floweret felt his breath, 

And sank in death's repose. 
Dear Mother ! you have now with you. 

Five of our little band, 
How soon we all must follow on, 

We dare not understand. 

We feel thy happy spirit's breath, 

Upon our cheek at night, 
And waking, strain our opening eyes. 

To watch its morning flight. 

* * * * 

6 



42 



CHRISTMAS 1853. 



Then let us turn to days gone by, 

Forgetting not another, 
Whose face was brightest when we met, 

It was our sainted mother. 

» 

She loved the day because it swelled 

Her heart with pure emotion, 
A household bound by silken ties, 

And wrapped in love's devotion, 
Made her more happy, and we caught 

Our mother's gaze in gladness. 
And from that fount of love there played, 

A stream that drowned all sadness. 

Fond Mother ! can you see us now ? 

One only from the number, 
That made your pleasant household up, 
In yonder grave doth slumber ; 



43 

We mourn you both, and could we speak 

Your spirits back to meet us, 
'T would be the happiest Christmas day 
That ere on earth could greet us. 



CHRISTMAS 1854. 



First to the dead, we turn our humble lay, 
To her that bore us would our spirits stray. 
Dear Mother ! now remembering thee we meet. 
At the old homestead, our good sire to greet, 
Thy gentle face, still smiling on the wall. 
Endears that homestead, shedding on us all, 
A cheerful flush of many a blissful hour. 
Ere death's alarum made us feel its power. 
Sweet spirit land, where many loved ones wait. 
To welcome those still here without thy gate ; 
What joys exalt us when with raptured eye 
Our thoughts exulting to thy regions fly. 



44 

For liovering spirits from tliy mansions teacli, 

A reuniting when yon sphere we reach ; 

Our wandering thoughts will penetrate thy mist, 

As to sweet tones of melody we list, — 

But oh ! how dark, how drear, how lone would seem 

The brightest world of which we fondly dream, 

If wandering lonely thro' its scenes we miss, 

The father, mother, brother, wife of this ? 



CHRISTMAS 1855. 



I hear a gentle murmur come spreading from the spheres, 
A hallowed mist surrounds me, a long loved form appears. 

All wreathed in joys and blessings, she takes her vacant 

place, 
And smiles upon the household, with her seraphic grace ; 
It is our sainted mother come, 



45 



CHKISTMAS 1856. 



And as time rolls us backward, we feel inclined to weep, 
As the spirit of our mother comes, to rock our souls to 
sleep. 



It raised my thoughts to heaven, and in converse with 

them there, 
I felt a joy unearthly, and lighter sat world's care ; 
For it opened up the vista of an echoless dim shore. 
Where my mother kindly greets me, as in good days of 

yore. 



ISTo comment can add to the force of this testi- 
mony. Mrs. Akers proclaims to the world that 
she wrote and published the lines in 1860, and 
that no one had read them till they appeared in 



46 

print ; yet here we find some of tlie most striking 
and characteristic of those lines, almost verbatim, 
in a Christmas carol written by Mr. Ball in 1856. 
In addition to this hard fact, which cannot be 
gainsaid, these extracts answer a condition which 
might be required of the author of this poem, 
that, in his habitual thought, he should evince a 
marked tenderness over the memory of his mother. 
And who will not feel, as he sees written year 
after year, in these unstudied verses, such constant 
and unforgetting filial love, so remarkable in a 
middle aged man, that they were the product of 
a spirit which might be expected necessarily to 
blossom in this beautiful poem ? 

The next piece of evidence might be claimed 
alone of itself to be conclusive on the whole 
question. It is a part of the original draft of the 
poem which fortunately has been found. It 
bears the marks of an unpracticed and unprofes- 
sional writer. It shows his groping and feeling 
after words and phrases, his stumblings, failures 
and successes, and instead of the draft, might 
rather be called the material out of which the 
draft was made. It needs no comment to show, 
that it is in truth, the ultimate outline, rude and 



47 

ragged of the beautiful poem, l^o one can look 
at it in the original, and not be profoundly im- 
pressed, that it is a genuine thing. Not a writer 
on earth, and in such a matter many writers 
would be infallible experts, on inspecting this 
document, would hesitate as to where the truth 
lies. 



48 

Here is presented a copy, so far as can be done in type, of 
that part of the draft wMcli has been preserved. 

o 

HHd3 

tide ?2 o 

Backward flow backward oh flight of years | S 

toils 
I am so weary of sighs and of tears 



K 



toils tears 

Sighs without recompense, Hopes all in vain, 



03 S ^ TO 



Rock me to sleep mother rock me to sleep 



o S oj TO i— 1 

r* It's =5 



(jiw me my childhood ■§ § 

Take them and make me a loved child again S) S ?? 

I have grown weary of dust and decay |^ « 6 Ji » ^ 



r=l 



Weary of flinging my hearts wealth away 1 

sowing %-^ g "J^c; o 5 

Weary of planting for others to reap §0 ^ -2 b a '^ 

so ei ,^ g fe .-tf 

S'C 3 -go " 

JJ (_| O TO TO O -^ 



> 



Sighing mist ,3 °= a o rH « "§ 

Hushed be my soul for I see through the clouds g 2 to « S " 

■7= "^s .goo ^ 

bright spirit loorld ^ <S< '" r^^ o 

A world of the In the silence I list 2 •-=! -g § ^ -^ 

Joyful sound ^ ^ f^^^ ^ 

A Paean of Joy comes floating along 

Swelling to hymnings of angelic song ' 
And swells to an anthem of heavenly song 

grass that iceeps o'er your grave 
Forgetting the grave that holds your remains 

far above in your presence I fain would Have 
In the bright world above in your presence I lave 

HwUl 
Henceforth this will calm me — I never will weep 

IknoiD noic 
For I know my dear mother will rock me to sleep 



49 



fond halo 
My minds eye is opened and visions of light 

gently 
Steal silently round me till all is so bright 

her lier 

I see you distinctly your eye beaming joy 

And beckons me onward her peace to enjoy 

the glad 
Sweet is the vision, I hear her sweet song 

soul 
In lullaby cheering my spirit along 

To where the bright silver lined cloud always keep 

The watch while my mother shall rock me to sleep 



Backward turn backward old time in your flight 

cliild 
Make me a boy again — just for to night 

Cease your 

Mother come back to the echoless shore 

Take me again to your heart as of yore 

Help me to reach the echoless shore 

forehead thefurroios of care 
Kiss from my sad eyes the tears I have wept 

the few silver threads oiitofmy hair 
Soothe me again as of yore when I slept 

your 
Over my slumber my loving watch keep 

Rock me to sleep mother rock me to sleep 



Over my heart 
Kind watch you have kept in days that are flown 

No love like my mothers ever has shone 

7 



50 

No other loves worship abides and endures 

Unselfish and patient and faithful like yours 

pain 
None hke a mother can chase away grief 

And cheer up the sorrowed in 

From the sick soul and world weary brain 

Slumbers soft calm — on my heavy lids creep 

Kock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep 



liolloio 
Tired of the vain world the base the untrue 

^ _ Oil mother my hem't calls fo7' you 

g ^ o Mother kind mother I now call to you 

% Many a summer the grass has grown green 

Many a year your grave has grown green 

Blossomed and faded our faces between 

o 2 :^ 2 S- p S' And blossomed with flowers 

^ «j^ § 5' S" Yet with a yearning and deep seated pain 

2 g. H Jf'o i Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 



^23 


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o 








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^1 

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p-g -i 



p pj 

CO i-i 



Long I to night for your presence again 



^ p M o CO Come from the silence so long and so deep 

p ^ ft) h-tj p' 

^ o^- £i p Rock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep 

O /. S P o" 

O cT:^ S ^ P 
^ 'O i I P re 

CD "S.^ ° B brown lighted 

'^ ere a ^ Come let your hair just shadowed with gold 

p p 

t^ «, ^ Fall on your shoulders again as of old 



fall forehead 

Let it drop over my vision to night 

Shading my weak eyes away from the light 



51 



For with its golden edged shadows once more 

tlie 
Fondly wiU throng sweet visions of yore 

Lovingly softly its charmed billows sweep 

Rock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep. 



"When the aiithorsMp of tlie poem was ques- 
tioned, Mr. Ball looked for and found the draft. 
It was on two pieces of paper fastened by a 
wafer. In June last, tlie whole of the draft was 
shown to the following gentlemen, who called at 
Mr Ball's house, as a sort of committee to satisfy 
themselves on the question. George W. Carleton, 
the publisher inl^ew York; Dr. A. N. Dougherty, 
of ITewark; the Eev. J. F. Pingry, of EUzabeth, 
F. W. Foote, of Elizabeth; Dr. Lewis "W. Oakley, 
Surgeon General; Dr. Westcott, J. R. "Weeks, 
Silas Merchant, of N'ewark ; Mr. Gilder, editor 
of the Newark Daily Advertiser; Mr. Potter, 
editor of the Newark Commercial, and Mr. Ter- 
hune, editor of the Washington Literary Union. 

It was noticed by these gentlemen, that one 
of these pieces of paper on which this draft was 
written, and unfortunately the piece which has 
been lost, was a tradesman's bill rendered to Mr. 



52 

Ball in September, 1856. Of course this writ- 
ing might have been made at any time on a bill 
of an older date, but where so many bills are 
presented and paid as in Mr. Ball's house, the 
presumption is that this one was thus used by 
him about the time of its presentation. At any 
rate, this little item is not without force in con- 
nection with the other evidence. 

It is proper to remark here, that the gentlemen 
just named, in June last investigated this whole 
subject, from the original letters and papers 
referred to in this statement, and that they are 
ready to certify to the genuineness of these 
documents, and, as would follow, to their con- 
viction of the rightfulness of Mr. Ball's claim. 

It may seem superfluous to discuss the question, 
whether Mr. Ball could have written, that is, had 
the ability to write the poem, after the demon- 
stration which has been made that he did write 
it. But in some of the newspapers, and doubt- 
less in private circles where he is not known, 
the question has been asked, what else has he 
written worthy of this, that he should expect this 
to be accorded to him ? It is said, he is unknown 
as a poet, and he must authenticate his claim, by 



53 

producing other poems of his up to the standard 
of this one. His friends are willing the question 
should be tried by this test, although, as must be 
obvious to any one at all familiar with poetical 
literature, it is a severe and not altogether a fair 
one. How many poets have gained reputation, 
and seeming immortality, from one or two pieces ; 
Gray, and Wolfe, and Heber, and Muhlenberg, and 
Dr. Good, and Key, and Woodworth, are famihar 
instances in the number. Eichard Henry Wilde, 
of Georgia, has been ranked among the poets of 
America, and the entire south have glorified over 
him for near forty years, by reason of his one 
little poem, of three stanzas, "My life is like 
the Summer Eose." How many copies of 
Motherwell's poems have been sold for the sake of 
Jeanie Morrison. Is not John Sterling loved as 
a poet by all who have ever read his few pages of 
Hymns of a Hermit. Cases like these will occur 
to every reader. In spirit as in matter the law 
is, that jewels shall ever be small and rare. 
Indeed the same rule applies not only to the 
minor, but to most of the greater poets. When 
Wordsworth was ridiculed from one end of 
England to the other, and in parliament, his 
friends found their weapons of defense, in a few 



54 

of Ms smaller pieces, like the Ode on Immortality, 
and tlie River Wje. How sliorn would Tenny- 
son laurels be without Locksley Hall and Ulysses ; 
and is not old Homer himself almost exclusively 
thumbed at the one page where we can weep over 
the woes of Andromache. All the truly divine 
inspired immortal lines that have yet been written, 
could be recorded in a much smaller volume than 
the multitude dream of. 

The following further illustration of this truth, 
apt and close at hand, will certainly be pardoned. 
The able critic of The Nation, in a recent friendly 
notice of Mrs. Akers's volume says : 

Better than by lier pseudonym " Florence Percy," 
or than by her own name, readers of late minor poetry 
will recognize in Mrs. Akers a favorite verse writer when 
we say that she is the author of the touching lines, 
" Eock me to sleep." They deserve to be liked. It is 
no wonder that they have been sung everywhere, for 
they give sweet and unaifected expression to the senti- 
ment of the purest tie between human hearts; they 
present it as it exists, kinder and dearer than even the 
reality, in the tender light of memory, and with all its 
sweetness increased by contrast with the harsh experiences 
of the world. We see no reason why the popularity of 
such verses should not be very long continued. 

But if Mr. Ball be tried even by this hard test, 
who will say that his claim has not already been 



55 

vindicated. Let any critic show wherein, as a 
whole, the nine verses above for the first time 
published, and to which there are no other claim- 
ants, are inferior to the six other verses. But 
not to let the case rest here, as it might, the fol- 
lowing pieces are published. They were selected 
by the writer of this article, after a not very 
carefal inspection of Mr. Ball's manuscripts. 
They were written without any view to publica- 
tion, and are published just as written, but are 
they not based on the same pure metal that runs 
through " Rock me to sleep," and have they not 
its rins: ? 



MAREIAGE ANNIVERSARY — 1865. 



My mind will wander back years tliree and twenty 
In this soft gloom of an autumnal day ; 

As memory gathering up lier robes of plenty, 
And mingling with my dreams, bears me away. 



66 

And like tlie dew fall, tliat so still is stealing, 
Eacli tliouglit will enter, till tlie picture's whole, 

And in my heart a sweet unwonted feeling 

Creeps up, and bathes each sense of my glad soul. 

Into these silken folds of life intruding, 

The past, and present, all are tinged with gold ; 

The warm lights of remembrance still are brooding, 
And from the future the black clouds are rolled. 

And these sweet wand'ring thoughts like happy dreaming. 
Show brightest wings whene'er I think of thee. 

All thro' the secret chambers haply streaming. 
They seek, but find no words to set them free. 

This mystic charm, alone for me has keeping, 
So near my heart is flitting night and day, 

That in the fullness of its tranced creeping, 
My soul is lightened while from you I stay. 

But as life's sunbeams slant and shadows lengthen, 
There are no shut wings of our youthful j oy ; 

Life's flowers in their aroma seem to strengthen, 
And in thy love is drowned all pain's alloy. 



57 

And as matures life's richest robes of glory, 
I look upon your brow, now streaked witli grey, 

To read again life's ever pleasant story. 
As noiselessly eacli pleasing sense lias play. 

And as I wander tbro' the groves of feeling, 
From the faint lover to the grand-sire now. 

Each record sweetly lends its gentle healing; 
No scentless flowers have ever decked thy brow. 

These noiseless whispers, like a dream of beauty, 
Have stilled the pulses when my heart would swell, 

And cheered me on thro' life's unpleasant duty. 
And taught the mind to echo — all is well. 

Fond wife, this night, the same as our bright wedding, 
Has that blest, tender, happy, heavenly hush. 

That stole in on my soul with its bright shedding, 

W hen our young hearts gave way to love's first flush. 

The secret chambers of my life are freighted, 
With the responses to my love you made ; 

These three and twenty years I now have waited. 
Nor find in you one reservation laid. 



58 



WATCH OVEE ME MOTHER. 



Wliile watclimg the shadowy forms of the night, 
The glass of remembrance reveals to my sight, 
The loved ones of childhood that sank to their rest, 
And now are enjoying the homes of the blest, 
Each thought of them ever is fragrant with love, 
A glorious host, in the heavens above, 
As round me they circle, this prayer I begin, 
Watch over me mother, and save me from sin. 



When cares and tempations beset me each day, 
The angelic crowd comes in lovely array j 
As these shadowy forms appear to my view. 
The load of life lightens, I strive then anew. 
Temptations forsake me, the sweet breath of prayer 
In low distant murmur, is borne on the air, 
My soul, in its transport, this prayer will begin, 
Watch over me mother, and save me from sin. 



59 

The doubting and fearing that torture the soul, 
Are quenched by the tides of the blest as they roll, 
And these gentle spirits, all pointing above, 
Melodiously whisper, " Here God is our love." 
And thought stealing upward is cheered while they smile. 
Till all my soul's sorrow is healed for the while. 
And from the heart's fountain, this prayer I begin, 
Watch over me mother, and save me from sin. 



Benignly they beckon me onward thro' life, 
And lull all the fever, and anguish of strife. 
My sad heart responding is cheered on again. 
To battle temptation, and bear the world's pain, 
These sanctified visions of loved ones will swell. 
My bosom with rapture no mortal can tell — 
The soul in its trusting, will try thus to win, 
The watch of my mother to save me from sin.* 



* Mr. Ball had uot seen Emerson's lines : 

" Close, above our heads, 
" The potent plain of Dsemon spreads, 
" Stands to each human soul his own, 
" For watch, and ward, and furtherance ; 
" Sometimes the airy synod bends, 
" And the mighty choir descends, 
" And the brains of men thence forth, 
" In crowded and in still resorts, 
^' Teem with unwonted thoughts." 



60 



LIFE IS BRIGHTER. 



Life is brighter, has grown brighter 

Every year, 
And the heart is ever lighter 

Every year ; 
And the pulses seem to strengthen. 
While the pleasures ling'ring lengthen, 

Every year. 

Sweet the echo, as we listen. 

Every year ; 
While we read, the pages glisten 

Every year. 

Sound and sight make each sense tingle 

As the pleasures thickening mingle 
Every year j 

And the new joys life is breeding 
Every year, 



61 

Come without our ever heeding, 

Every year. 
Life is now so full of glory 
That I read its pleasant story 

Every year, 

Wondering when the frosts will gather 

Every year, 
Till the heart would seem to rather, 

Every year. 
Doubt, if Time had not forgotten 
I had ever been begotten 

Any year- 
Charmed with life, and life's pure fountain 

Every year, 
That I dread less, grief's cold mountain. 

Every year. 
While the west is all a glowing 
From love's fountain there is flowing 

Every year, 

Such a stream of pure devotion 
Every year. 



62 

That my heart bathes in this lotion. — 

Every year, 
Opens wide its secret locking 
To these fond ones who are knocking 

Every year, 

That my soul, in one great wonder, 
Hopes the tie may never sunder 

Any year. 
These kind friends will ever lighten 
All my cares, the future brighten 
Till the western sun is glowing. 
And the roseate hue is flowing, 
In such gorgeous mellow shading 
That I know not — Life is fading 

Every year. 



63 



THE LOCK OF HAIR. 



Laid away carefully, 
From all other eyes, 

Is a lock of brown hair 
I lovingly prize. 

Tis all that is left me, 

I value it much, 
It brings back the thrill 

Of a passionate touch. 

Long, long, in its silence 
From other eyes hid. 

Tied with a blue ribbon 
It rests on the lid 

Of the box of sweet sandal 
She brought home to me. 

From over the ocean 
And there it shall be. 



64 

No eye must profane it ; 

But this lock of liair, 
Mutely responding, 

Has pointed me where 

Her soul lias ascended 
'To sing with the just, 

All gathered, but this, 
Of the mortal to dust. 

The lock I had severed 

From her cold clammy brow. 
Is all that is left me. 

Of her to love now. 

I loved her while living. 
Now named with the dead, 

I go treading gently 
Her blossoming bed. 

The jonquil and jasmine 
Grow green on her grave, 

The heart hush is heavy 
Tho' broken, 'tis brave. 



f 



65 

And silently sweeping 
The arc of tlae air, 

Serenity settles 
On all that is there. 



GOOD NIGHT. 



Sleep gently, darling one, so dearj 
At your request, I sit me here. 
Still ringing in my listening ear 
Your sweet — good night. 

Sleep on ; the gentle spirits wait 
To open up the heavenly gate, 
And welcome you to meet the fate 

That bids — good night 
• 
To all of fear, and all of woe, 
To all of pomp, and all of show — 
Where tears are dried ere they can flow 

To dim the sight. 



66 

Sleep on ! I'll watch beside your bed, 
And pillow soft your aching head, 
Removing from my heart, the dread 
Of that good night, 

Whispered so softly that it seemed 
As if my brain had only dreamed 
And on my vision there had gleamed 
The words — good night. 

Now wake again, beloved one ; 
The night has passed, the morning sun 
Has put his sparkling jewels on. 
And all is bright — 

But cold upon that pillow lies 
The mortal of the angel's prize, 
And I hear, whispering from the skies. 
Her soft — good night. 



67 



These poems certainly show Mr. Ball's ability 
to write the one iu question, and that he did 
write it, has been demonstrated by four distinct 
lines of proof, each of which of itself estabhshes 
the fact ; first, the letters, proving that he read 
the verses to his friends years before Mrs. Akers's 
date ; second, the poem itself as a whole, illus- 
trating by its internal evidence that it was all 
the work of one mind, and of course Mr. 
Ball's; third, the Christmas Carols, using the 
very language of the poem nearly four years 
before Mrs. Akers's claim; and fourth, the 
original draft, settling the question with fatal 
certainty. 

This is the case, and it is seldom that in such a 
matter one so strong and conclusive can be made. 
It is a strange affair, and Mrs. Akers's friends, 
to whom she so feelingly alludes in her note, 
will ask for a solution of the mystery. On the 
one hand stands a woman of genius, the authoress 
of many sweet and polished verses, which would 
have given her a reputation without the aid of 
the disputed poem (though critics pronounce 
that the best in her book), and on the other side, 



68 

stands a gentleman of high, social and personal 
position J of fine native poetical gifts, but without 
aspiration for literary fame, and careless to a 
proverb both in writing his verses, and what 
becomes of them after written; both claiming 
what, of course, one only can own. But is the 
good name of the parties necessarily on trial, as 
Mrs. Akers seems to imply in her note? Ordi- 
nary readers, the prosaic and hard judging, 
would say yes, but is that necessarily so ? Are 
not other laws to be applied here than in ordinary 
cases of disputed meum and tuum? Mr. Ball 
himself, with the most naive benevolence and 
kindness of heart, asked the writer, whether, as 
suggested to him by a distinguished literary 
friend, there might not be some occult psycholo- 
gical process by which Mrs. Akers could have 
possessed herself, unconsciously, of these verses 
from his mind or manuscript? In that unknown 
region, where lie great future sciences, of which 
clairvoyance, mesmerism and the like pheno- 
mena give empirical token, may there not be 
such methods? In the common manifestations 
of spiritualism, so called, there are things not less 
strange than this, and indeed quite like it. A 
mind which dwells so habitually in the ideal. 



69 

as Mrs. Akers, around which there is an atmo- 
sphere where grows so profusely her sweet, sad 
sick-room poetry, may surely, if any mind ever 
can, be expected to acquire by some such abnor- 
mal process. One of her most friendly critics, 
above referred to, says of her, " she obviously 
borrows thoughts and forms from other poets," 
and may she not, with the same innocence, by a 
farther reach of the same faculty or tendency, like- 
wise borrow words, phrases and lines. 

The experience of Christopher l^orth, in the 
light of certain facts about Mr. Ball's manuscripts, 
offers another and kindred solution of the mys- 
tery. Mr. Ball is very careless of his manuscript 
poems. When he travels he often carries them 
in loose sheets of note paper in his pockets. They 
lie scattered on his table. Formerly he had a 
clerk, now deceased, who used to copy for himself 
many of the verses. Mrs. Akers sojourned for a 
while in I^Tew Hampshire, and Mr. Ball's business 
often carried him there, though they never met. 
In a way here hinted at, or in some other, " Rock 
me to sleep " or part of it perhaps was lost, got into 
some country newspaper, and floated before the 
eye, and into the memory, and poetical soul of 
Mrs. Akers, before she went to Italy, and there, 



70 

in Italy, by the alembic of ber genius, all her nature 
excited and transfigured by the glorious monu- 
ments and associations around, the verses be- 
came transmuted, and, having to her lost their 
identity, were reproduced from her memory. The 
following apt and choice passage fi'om the Nodes 
Ambrosiance, shows how such things may hap- 
pen with poets : 

Registrar. You have a miraculous memory Sir. Is 
it true that you have by heart all JSjJenser's Faery Queen ? 

North. As great a lie as ever was uttered. But thou- 
sands and tens of thousands of small poems lie buried 
alive in my mind : and when I am in a perfectly peace- 
ful mood, there is a resurrection of the beautifulf like 
flocks of flowers issuing out of the ground, at touch of 
spring. I am in a perfectly peaceful mood now. And 
since you like to hear me recite poetry, my dear Registrar, 
I will murmur you a few stanzas, that must have com- 
mitted themselves to my memory, for I feel assured that 
I did not write them, yet I have no recollection of them — 
mind that word — and perhaps they will take their flight 
now, like a troop of doves that on a sudden are seen 
wheeling in the sunshine, and then melt away from the 
eye to be seen nevermore. 

The only difference between Christopher Kortli 
and Mrs. Akers is, the one felt assured he did 
not write the forgotten, yet memorized verses, 
and the other that she did. 



71 

It is suggested, in good faith and witli perfect 
kindness of feeling towards her, that the explana- 
tion of the matter lies in some such direction as 
ahove indicated. 

" Higii omens ask diviner guess 
Not to be conned to tediousness." * 

But Mr. Ball is a man, a business man, with 
but one'side open to the infinite, and that only 
occasionally ; and withal a member of the New 
Jersey legislature, and must be judged by com- 
!non rules. Therefore this presentation of his 
case has been made from a strictly mundane 
point of view,' sustained by facts, dates and docu- 
ments. 

It is understood that there have been other 
claimants to the poem, Mrs. Akers says eight 



* I made a comparison at table some time since, which has often been 
quoted, and received many compliments. It was that of the mind of a bigot 
to the pupil of the eye : the more light you pour on it, the more it con- 
tracts. The simile is a very obvious, and, I suppose I may now say, a 
happy one ; for it has just been shown me that it occurs in a preface to cer- 
tain Political Poems of Thomas Moore's published long before my remark 
was repeated. When a person of fair character for literary honesty uses 
an image, such as another has employed before him, the presumption is, 
that he has struck upon it independently, or unconsciously recalled it, 
supposing it his own.— Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. 



t 

72 



or ten, but as they have not put their claims 
before the pubhc in print, they are not farther 
noticed. Mr. Ball's case is here independently 
stated, and in its harness he awaits all comers. 



5. 78 ' 










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